


Sugary Desserts and Nicknames

by clairedearing



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Excessive Use of Cute Nickname, Five Times Plus One, Fluff, I Hate Puppies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairedearing/pseuds/clairedearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cupcake; small iced cake: a small individual iced cake, baked in a paper or foil cup or in a cup-shaped mold, usually topped with a sweet icing and sprinkles. [Five Times there was Bond, Q, and a nickname of the confectionary persuasion, and one time there were witnesses.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugary Desserts and Nicknames

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to start this off with I hate Lele. I hate cupcakes. I hate Bond/Q. I hate Skyfall and what it's done to me. I hate everything. I haven't seen Skyfall yet so this is as spoiler free as it gets. For Lele.

I.  
  
The first time it happens, Q is nearly 99% sure it _didn’t_ , because, it would be outrageous to think otherwise.  
  
In his defense, it was late at night - the particular time of night where you know it’s late and yet can’t put a number to it because it’s just that late - and it goes a bit like this; where Q is bundled against the cold in a thick jacket, not in his lab but just outside it, at the airport, waiting for M to come in from her flight from Bolivia.  
  
Bond is there, a not-quite-as-thick pea coat over his suit, and if Q wanted to he could call Bond bored, but he’s not quite sure Bond would agree.  
  
As it is, his tablet is near dead and he can’t get to an outlet because of the unexpected snow storm that delayed M’s flight for an hour, and when Bond told him to tag along to pick M up, he was expecting maybe two hours waiting time tops - not eight.  
  
Q really quite hates everything right now.  
  
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Bond says, cutting through the silence - or rather, the hum of the airport behind them. “I’ll leave you here and I won’t make any excuses for you.”  
  
Bond finds himself on the end of a sharp, unrelenting glare.  
  
“I’ll have you know that my personal best is fifty-six hours without sleep, and I was able to get every ounce of my work done,” Q says, sharply, and Bond smiles crookedly, and holds up a hand to pacify him.  
  
“I know you’re getting pissy because all your batteries are dying, but let’s keep it civil, shall we?”  
  
“I’m not getting pissy,” Q hisses, just when his tablet flashes a ‘20% battery remaining’. Bond raises an eye at him, and Q’s jaw clicks shut. “You dragged me out here, _Bond_ , why?”  
  
“Perhaps I wanted the company?” James questions, shrugging.  
  
“You hate company.”  
  
“Well, you’re not wrong.”  
  
Q settles into an icy glare while he turns the brightness on his tablet all the way down, and shuts down every app he’s not using at the moment. Bond shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and tucks his hands into his pockets.  
  
“Don’t be mad, cupcake,” Bond says, softly, and Q freezes, and goes to say ‘what’ but then M’s plane suddenly touches down, and he never gets the chance.  
  
He forgets about it half way through M scolding Bond about waiting all night for her, and holding Q hostage.  
  
II.  
  
“I love what you’ve done with your hair,” Bond says as a greeting when he enters Q’s lab. Q raises an eyebrow at him, and runs a hand through his hair subconsciously. It doesn’t feel any different other than the fact that the wind has swept it up, off of his forehead. It’ll fall back into place any second once it acclimatizes.  
  
“It’s temporary,” Q says, and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s nearly too sweet to stomach, french vanilla cream and four teaspoons of sugar, but it’s perfect for coming into the office at seven in the morning to prep an entire suitcase of trackers and weapons for 007's mission to France. “It was just the wind.”  
  
“Shame,” Bond says, and suddenly the coffee cup is out of Q’s hand, and raised to Bond’s lips. He takes a small sip before pulling away in disgust. “Do you plan on having any coffee with your sugar, today, Q?”  
  
“It’s not yours,” Q says, and gestures to the ‘Q’ painted on the side of the white mug. “No-one’s forcing you to drink from _my_ cup.”  
  
Bond doesn’t put down the coffee, however, just keeps it in his hands, warming it while Q moves across the lab, changing out heavier guns with lighter ones, scanning a few new passports, and printing out one ticket to the Parisian Opera House.  
  
“I don’t see how you can drink this,” Bond says, over the sound of the printer. Q turns just in time to see him take yet another sip of the coffee and pull away, yet again, in disgust.

“We don’t all drink a beer for breakfast,” Q mutters, and stalks back over to Bond, ticket in hand. “Remember to be there by seven.”  
  
“I don’t have to remember,” Bond says, barely smiling. “I’ll have you annoying me about it.”  
  
“Oh, is that what you call it?” Q snarks back, eyebrow raised.  
  
Bond reaches forward then, the pad of his thumb barely brushing against Q’s cheek. Q freezes, eyebrows pulling together just barely, as Bond ghosts his hand up the length of Q’s jaw, before suddenly his hand is in Q’s hair, ruffling it.  
  
“ _Bond_!” Q snaps, taking two steps back. His cheeks are red, but he tells himself it’s from righteous indignation.  
  
“Your hair was falling flat,” Bond says, casually shrugging. “But instead of looking like you just rolled out of bed, it looks like your hair's swirled, like an ice cream, or a cupcake.”  
  
Before Q can get out a response, sharp-witted, slightly flirty, or otherwise, James has the ticket, and the briefcase that Q’s prepared, and is out of the room.  
  
The only thing that confirms him ever even being there is Q’s coffee cup, far away from it’s usual place, half drunken. Q stares at it, before raising it to his lips, and downing the rest.  
  
III.  
  
When Bond wakes, Q is sitting next to him, fingers flying across his tablet, small sounds of affirmation coming from it every minutes. Q doesn’t notice he’s awake right away, mainly because the only difference is that Bond’s eyes were closed, and then they were open. It isn’t much a shock, but Q still finds himself tightening his grip around his tablet, before setting it on his lap and reaching for the water bottle on the bedside stand.  
  
“I’m not thirsty,” Bond rasps in a voice that definitely implies the opposite. Q raises an eyebrow, and pushes the bottle forward. The other man growls, and grabs it harshly, and downs half of it. “Happy?”  
  
“Satisfied,” Q says, blandly. “Would you like to talk about it?”  
  
Bond shifts from staring at the window angrily to staring at Q angrily. “What?”  
  
Q blinks. “In most studies, research has shown that people who talk about events that caused unpleasant emotions in them recovered much quicker-”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bond says, cutting him off, and he turns back to look out the window. The sun is shining, and the sky is clear, letting the sunlight reflect off of the fresh snow that layers the ground.  
  
There’s quiet, where Q bides his time, and Bond stares out the window, until the agent shifts in his bed, and slides upwards to sit up straighter.  
  
“I don’t mean to be short with you,” Bond says, quietly, tired. “M tells me I do it all the time.”  
  
“I’ve heard the rumors,” Q says lightly. “Apparently you’ve hurt a lot of people.”  
  
Bond rolls his head over to look at Q. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“It helps if you apologize,” he says, lips lifting up into a soft smile.  
  
James returns it, eyes closing. “I’m sorry, cupcake.”  
  
Q leans back, and picks up his tablet.  
  
IV.  
  
“Drugged,” M says, or rather scolds, as she paces the length of her office. “ _Drugged_.”  
  
“Yes, drugged,” Bond agrees, though it sounds more like he’s trying to make a point. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You’re really not,” Q points out mildly, uncapping a q-tip. Bond glares at him, and Q, as always, does nothing but smile back. “Open.”  
  
“A twelve year old knows not to accept drinks from strangers,” M continues, while Q comes toe-to-toe with Bond, who drops his jaw, eyes trained on Q’s own. “And you, a commander in the Royal Navy, were slipped a nearly lethal drug because you didn't want to get up and get your own drink.”  
  
Q twists the q-tip in between his thumb and finger, swabbing the inside of James’ cheek, before pulling it out and sliding the cap over it. Even though M continues reprimanding Bond, his eyes never waver from Q’s.  
  
Q doesn’t quite know what to do.  
  
“Are you listening?” M asks sharply, and while Q definitely wasn’t, Bond apparently was.  
  
“Be more careful, the next time you won’t bail me out, and if I ever do something stupid like that again, you’ll have me killed,” Bond recites, finally pulling away from Q’s gaze to smile demurely at M. “Is that it?”  
  
“Get out,” M says, and rolls her eyes. Q grabs the drugs kit and moves quickly out the door, Bond a few steps behind, and Q finds himself waiting the two extra seconds for Bond to catch up.  
  
“Getting slow in your old age?” Q questions when Bond reaches him and they set a pace together.  
  
“You wish,” Bond snarks. “Tell me, aren’t you allowed to start drinking in a few years?”  
  
“Oh, ha, ha,” Q mutters, and shakes his head. “You really shouldn’t do that, though.”  
  
Bond freezes mid-step, before catching up. “I don’t take your age lightly,” he says, and he sounds suddenly very serious. Q looks at him, through the corner of his eye, and decides to keep quiet.  
  
“I was talking about riling M up,” Q says, instead. “You know you nearly give her a heart attack once a week.”  
  
“M’s a strong woman,” Bond says, nodding to himself. “And I don’t.”  
  
“You do,” Q counters, pausing in the hall way. It’s only slightly busy, the majority of the traffic gathered at the waiting rooms and conference rooms a few feet down. “Sometimes you worry us all.”  
  
Bond’s eyes flicker up to meet Q’s. “Do I worry you, cupcake?”  
  
He thinks he’s going to be sarcastic, or teasing, or perhaps nonchalant, but Bond is staring at him with his eyes narrowed just slightly, and Q realizes that even if he tried to play if off, Bond would see right through it.  
  
“Yes,” he says. “Sometimes, you do. Mainly when you’re risking your life needlessly, or unknowingly taking drugs from strangers, and getting yourself into trouble.”  
  
Bond goes to say something, perhaps an apology, perhaps something more, and Q feels something unfamiliar rise in his chest that only takes a millisecond to recognize as panic, and he cuts Bond off before he can say anything.  
  
“Of course, every agent gives me that same panic,” Q finds himself saying with no real reason. “You’d think I’d be used to it.”  
  
Bond’s mouth clicks shut, and his expression moves into a blank one. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me.”  
  
Q only realizes that Bond called him cupcake long after he leaves.  
  
V.  
  
“You’re mad at me,” Q comments, before Bond can dart of out the lab like he had been doing for the past week. It’s not that he corners Bond in, so to say, but he does electronically lock all the other doors except the one Bond had come in through, and moved to stand in front of it. “Which you can be, that’s perfectly acceptable, but I’d like to know why, and how to resolve it.”  
  
“What?” Bond says eloquently, most likely realizing that he was backed into a corner and had begun searching for possible outs. “I’m not - I just think it’d be in our better interests to distance ourselves.”  
  
Q raises an eyebrow. “May I ask why?”  
  
“It’s better if you didn’t,” Bond says, and shifts. “I’m here to pick up a new phone. Do you have it?”  
  
“Yes, I do,” Q answers, moving over to the other side of the lab, reluctantly abandoning his post at the door. “This brand of phone is a bit lax with it’s security and without being able to configure it directly, the contact list is empty, and I’ve just assigned the speed-dials.”  
  
“Let me guess,” Bond says as he takes the phone gingerly. “Seven for you, six for M?”  
  
“That’s right,” Q affirms. “You know there’s a very high likelihood of you not coming back from this mission.”  
  
Bond looks up from the phone to shoot him a bewildered look. “Thanks?”  
  
“I’m just saying,” Q starts, “that this may be your last chance to ever talk to me. So, in that spirit, you should tell me what I’ve done so I can make amends.”  
  
“In case I die?”  
  
“Yes,” Q says, nodding. “In case you die.”  
  
It’s actually fascinating to watch Bond in those few moments, as he looks away, and tenses, before it all goes out of him, and he turns towards Q, and says, ‘Well, in case I die.’  
  
What happens next is nothing expected, yet it happens so naturally, Q later assumes it must have been. Bond steps forward, stepping even closer into Q’s space, and his hands slide up his neck to curve around his jaw, and he doesn’t pull Q forward as much as he crashes into Q, lips pressing fierce and hot against Q’s own.  
  
Bond goes to pull away after a second, probably from Q’s lack of response, and he’s tense around Q’s jaw, hands falling away, and that’s enough to snap Q out of his stupor, before Q’s own hands reach out to grab Bond’s collar and pull him forward.  
  
It’s hot and pressing, where Bond’s hands are a bit too tight, and Q’s glasses are nearly knocked off. Bond licks his way into Q’s mouth, while Q responds by nipping at Bond’s lips, and Bond’s hands move from his jaw to the back of his neck and around his hip.  
  
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” James says against Q’s lips, dragging his own across Q’s face before pressing them back to his lips. “You taste exactly like that damn coffee of yours, all sugary sweet, like a fucking cupcake.”  
  
Q pulls back just slightly to grab his breath, and drag his nose across the bridge of James’ own. “You know all that talk about dying?” he questions, breathless.  
  
“Yes?” James responds, voice just as breathless as Q’s own.  
  
“Don’t do any of that,” Q says. “Alright?”  
  
James kisses him, sweet and slow. “I can at least promise you that, cupcake.”  
  
+I  
  
“Stop that.”  
  
“Stop what?”  
  
“James I swear to god.”  
  
“Mmm, that’s fine with me.”  
  
“People are staring.”  
  
“Let them.”  
  
“Not in front of the _interns_ , James.”  
  
“The interns need to learn first hand on how to deal with their agents, don’t they?”  
  
“I really, really don’t think ‘letting an agent do things to my neck while I’m trying to work’ is under that category.”  
  
“Really? It should be.”  
  
“I’m going to kill you.”  
  
“Whatever you say, cupcake.”  
  
“You did not call me cupcake in front of a dozen interns.”  
  
“What are you going to do about it?”  
  
“You have a fetish.”  
  
“Mmm, yes I do.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“Well, I love you, so I guess we’re at an impasse.”  
  
“...I’m going to kill you. You can’t just confess that you love someone to get out of an argument.”  
  
“But, it worked, didn’t it?”  
  
“I still hate you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I also love you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Glad we got that cleared up in front of twelve interns.”  
  
“Can you think of a better place?”  



End file.
